


lonely hearts club

by lavenderss



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: (the school obviously didn't fall), -Ish, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - High School, Carla goes to San Esteban, F/M, Slow Burn, a bunch of friendships - Freeform, a different high school shh, annoyed with each other 24/7 to lovers, background failing Carla/Polo, idek, it'll become clear in like the first paragraph
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-21 10:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderss/pseuds/lavenderss
Summary: "What areyoudoing here, gorgeous?"In simple terms, going to school. In reality, she's forced to go to the school whose near collapse caused atotalcollapse of Carla's entire life. How ironic.She's just here to survive her senior year - hoping things will somehow miraculously fix themselves in the meantime. She's not here to make friends orfall in love.OR: In which Carla has to go to San Esteban and finds out that some ofthemaren't that bad at all.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 18
Kudos: 30





	1. do you

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii <3  
> i've had this AU idea for ages (well i've had 2) and i finally managed to get a full chapter finished as inspiration struck soo this is the one i'm doing and here you go <3\. i'm pretty excited about this ngl just because i really like this AU.  
> as you've probably read in the tags, in this fic, Carla goes to San Esteban which didn't fall, but nearly, and Ventura and Teo got in trouble for it. it'll become clear if you keep reading. this begins at the start of their senior year, so with the start of s2, but as the entire plot of s1 didn't happen because nobody got a scholarship etc etc, things are very different. the characterization will also be very different due to the fact that the characters were shaped by very different experiences than on the show, but it'll start making sense over time. (i hope.) have fun reading <3  
> also, updates will be like snail-paced because lately all my teachers have decided to attempt to kill me. you've been warned. but then again, i am pretty excited about this story so that might help.  
> title is a song by Marina (my music taste hasn't evolved since the 9th grade and i'm proud of it)  
> oh and also this should have around 5 chapters (or that's the idea for now).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, carla's with polo right now and this has a carla/polo scene. i figured i'd warn the carmuel and inform the carla/polo shippers? you're welcome.  
> also there's like 0 carmuel in this chapter but it's not like they haven't just met (and this is tagged as a slow burn). it's gonna pick up, i promise.

Carla doesn't wake up to a knot in her stomach.

Correction: the old Carla didn't wake up to a knot in her stomach.

_ This _ Carla, pushed there by circumstance, and not some pathetic weakening of character, does. She'd normally reprimand herself for it, but she lets herself have a minute with her anxiety today, because, well, she actually finds it too reasonable not to.

Noone's ever deemed Carla not sensible. She's not gonna push herself there now.

But when she pushes her silk sheet and flowery comforter aside and wiggles her cold toes two centimetres above the ground, the pity party's over. Yes, there's nothing ideal about this situation, but then again, when was life ever ideal, unless we count on the surface?

Besides, she's got this, right? It's not like it's the end of the world.

She's been through worse.

_

The  _ worse _ started approximately a half-year ago, when her father and his business partner, Ventura Nunier, found themselves with a bunch of lawsuits filed against their construction company.

It's not like the school collapsed on the kids' heads or anything, but as claimed by the lawsuits (and cracks in the walls or something), it probably should have. It's not that Carla understands more than the basic minimum about the penal code and responsibility and attorneys, but this, even according to her father, was supposed to be a simple nuisance, easy to brush off the table. After all,  _ nothing happened _ .

Well. Against their family's combined and the  _ collective _ best judgment, Ventura was arrested on the random evening of May sixth. She remembers the date exactly, because in hindsight, it's when her entire life started going to shit.

Apparently, legal processes move quickly when you're a rich, high-profile businessman, and have a lot to offer. In Ventura's case, what he had to offer was nothing less than Carla's father, Teo Rosón.

Yes, betrayal happens. Carla's heard the rushed, condescending whispers about some partners turning on each other and stabbing each other in the back at dinner parties, but she never would've thought that this could happen to  _ them _ . The two families were like – the opposite of the Montegues and Capulets. Their bonds were solid, strengthened by every-year joint family vacations, their kids' friendships. Their ties were supposed to be impossible to cut.

Ventura managed it with a simple nod to a deal proposal.

Now listen, it's not like Carla understands what it's like to be in jail, but she definitely understands something about character strength and loyalty. Definitely more than this pathetic scumbag of a man that she used to call  _ Uncle _ who had gifted her her favourite fairy costume when she was five.

Anyway; her father needed a different pair of wings after he'd found out about this  _ highly concerning turn of events _ , as he'd put it. The pair of wings was mechanical, supplied with a private pilot, and landed in Bermuda.

Carla lost a lot of her illusions that day she came back from school and found the letter from her father on the dining room table. She didn't know there was even this amount to still lose, after all that disappointment from the past weeks, but apparently, people are always capable of surprising you with even worse.

She'd wanted to run out and get drunk with Lu or something, but she didn't. Like a good daughter, she waited for her mother to come home, sat at the table. Gently squeezed her mother's shoulder as she handed her the letter to read.

(“Why are you telling me this?” Beatriz had asked. Then she gave Carla a  _ look _ , went up to her bedroom, and didn't come out for five days.)

Scratch the thing about losing most of her illusions. After that, she'd felt like she'd been drained of all.

Obviously, her father's escape had an aftermath. This aftermath consisted of emptied bank accounts, formal letters being brought to Carla on silver platters while she was eating breakfast, because her mother had been in hiding, and quite obviously broken friendships, though Guzmán and Marina had really been the last problem on her mind.

Her mother only emerged from the bedroom once she heard the distrainors walk around and take off the paintings from the walls. She looked at Carla with an accusation-

(“Couldn't you have dealt with this before they started to ambush us in our own home?”)

-then somehow managed to throw them out.

Being a member of the nobility apparently still holds some value. In her mother's case, it meant that after a week of hiding, she'd put her best social smiles, an appropriate amount of pathos and her myriad of contacts to action, financially securing herself enough to be able to somehow get  _ them _ out of the horse shit.

Of course, not  _ completely _ . It wasn't like they would get to keep up the same living standards after a grade-A scandal, her father being proclaimed a criminal on the run, and also basically losing the majority of their annual income.

They couldn't keep everything from their lives before. It was either the house or Carla's school.

Because rich people aren't good at not being selfish, and Beatriz is the best of her kind, the choice was obvious. Despite the fact that the two of them could sell the house, comfortably settle in an apartment still way too big for two people, and Carla's Las Encinas education would realistically be a much better investment.

Carla said none of that when her mother tight-lippedly and dryly, eyes not on her daughter, informed her that she would not be able to pay Carla's six-figure tuition for her senior year.

She wanted to argue, but she didn't. Maybe because she knew it would be useless. Maybe because her mother had aged at least ten years since her father had left the country a mere month ago; maybe because the house was where she grew up, too, and also a tie to her father (aside from the way her heart spikes up in despise every time she sees a photo of him). Maybe because moving all her clothes from the walk-in closet would be such a pain.

Maybe she just didn't want to leave.

So now, she's walking into that built-in closet to pick her outfit for her first day at  _ San Esteban _ .

The ruthless, merciless irony. It almost makes Carla sigh as she goes through her blouses.

She doesn't, though. All she does is pick a clothes hanger and press her lips in bitterness.

The one thing she can do is make a good impression.

_

The academic learning curve at this school might not be steep, but Carla feels lost in more ways than one. She'd be fine with algebra; the calculations she's having problems with are of a more pragmatic nature, starting with  _ where should the driver park _ (three streets away from school), going over _ how the fuck she is supposed to find her classroom if she doesn't even have a timetable provided on an online school moodle _ , and finally, after resolving all of these issues:  _ where should she sit _ \- and how is she supposed to get there while drawing the smallest possible amount of attention to herself. (It's already bad enough that her most casual yet still school-appropriate clothing of an A-cut skirt and silky blouse with a cardigan makes her stick out like a sore thumb among ripped jeans and tracksuits. Let alone the  _ shoes _ .)

She knows she looks confident, mainly because she's well-aware of how fatal a slip would be, but that doesn't mean that her lungs aren't full of thick dread.

She can only afford one half second of hesitance more until it'll stop looking like she's evaluating her options and start looking like she's insecure and completely out of her depths. Carla sighs internally, picks a desk in the middle third row and strides through the centre of the classroom. Nobody's paying her a lot of attention or trying to question her, which is good. Probably because the classroom is still relatively empty and most of the present are silently staring at the displays of their not-iPhones.

“People! What a fucking blast to see you all in this shithole again!”

_ Well. _

Now, this is more like what Carla had imagined. So far, everyone's been surprisingly mellow, and honestly, much better-behaved than her own classmates, if behaviour was measured by volume.

Probably because this guy makes up for all of them. He's leaning against the doorframe, eyes full of sparks (not the dangerous kind, though), gesturing theatrically with a glass bottle with a torn-off in his hand. Not that that's a particularly helpful camouflage. “To another fucking year, huh! Maybe this time, someone's gonna try to plant a bomb! Falling buildings get old, especially when they don't even do  _ that _ right-”

As on cue, a dark-skinned girl with a hijab attempts to make her way into the classroom over the yeller. “But you wouldn't do that, would you, pretty eyes?”

Completely unfazed, the girl rolls her eyes half-heartedly, just stepping over the guy's widely-stanced foot and walking towards her desk. She gives Carla – who's  _ staring _ – a split-second of intrigue in eye contact, then settles in the second row to the right and starts to take out her books.

“Christian, cut it off,” the boy who's come to the classroom after the girl doesn't ignore  _ Christian _ like she's done, but stops next to him with clear disapprovement. “Leave her alone.”

“Samu, why always so serious?”  _ Christian _ laughs, jovially lowering his arm and examining the bottleneck, as if to determine the quality of his future sip. “Nadia and I are just messing around, right? We're kidding!”

Nadia snorts from her second-row place. “Your jokes get funnier every hundredth time you say them.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Christian raises his hands in capitulation, seeing that the boy's facial features haven't softened. “Jesus, I'll be nice, promise. And I'll keep that out of sight,” he adds, reaching for a cap of the vodka (?) inside his jean pocket in response to his friend's unwavering frown. “I know,  _ it's the first day of school _ . I just wanted to liven it up.”

“We're all super alive,”  _ Samu _ informs him, finally cracking what could be at least a 20% smile, if you took away the sourness. Unfortunately, he instantly grows serious again. “It's our senior year, you could try not to get kicked out.”

“Of course, Samu, of course,” Christian smiles in the least reassuring manner. “I'll be like an angel, I promise, you won't even hear about me. I'm zipping up my mouth, see?” he mimics, pressing his lips flat together. The duo walks towards the rows of desks.

It takes Christian two seconds to break his promise. On his journey to the back row, his eyes meet Carla – who's been following the whole exchange much less discreetly than she should've – and his jaw almost drops to the floor. “Now who do we have here,” his overbearing loudness gains a certain honeyed edge, which just sounds comical. He doesn't match the idea of  _ tone it down _ at all. “This year is gonna be a fucking blast, huh? What are  _ you _ doing here, gorgeous?”

Carla shifts uncomfortably in her seat. It's not that she's not used to male attention – the kind of male attention that she gets, though, is subtle, obstructly appropriate (everyone knows who she is, and who  _ Polo _ is), and doesn't exactly constitute of loud, verbal exclamations from virtual strangers.

A childish, defensive ( _ scared _ )  _ I have a boyfriend _ is naturally the first thing that comes to mind, but Carla's too smart to act on it. (Honestly, everyone should be too smart to say that.)

“Guess,” she quips coolly, disinterestedly, sparing Christian one quick glance and nothing else. “I'm sitting in a chair with a book. I think I came here to find the purpose of life.”

A confused crease forms between Christian's brows, but it's immediately replaced by a thousand smaller ones around his eyes and mouth. “You're funny  _ and _ hot, what a rare feat. No offense to you all, beauties,” he looks around with a half-genuinely alarmed expression, but swiftly returns to Carla. “I know you're not here to find your life purpose but to go to school,” he tells her, somewhat seriously. “What I mean is,  _ why _ ? I mean, you look like you'd piss perfume. No offense.”

Carla crinkles her nose in a momentary lapse of disgust. “I don't think that's any of your business,” she raises an eyebrow, but keeps looking at her desk, flapping disinterestedly through a worn-out copy of B1 French. She speaks French at a C1 level.

“I'm the welcoming committee,” Christian leans on her desk, putting his palms on it. The wood shifts. “It's in my job description.”

“Thanks, but I'm just fine welcoming myself,” Carla nods curtly, now deciding to look at Christian, just so she gets her point across. Even his dimply, sunbeamy expression falters when it meets her ice-cold facade.

“Well, I'm always here if you need anything,” Christian recovers briskly, drumming his fingers on the foiled desk, smile just a tad less breezy. “It's a big, bad- Holy  _ shit _ . Is that Gucci?”

No. Her bag is, in fact, couture Valentino. Carla seriously fears for the literacy of these students if he can't tell apart two very different initials, but then again, she doubts Christian knows much about purses.

She doesn't even roll her eyes. “No.”

“Well, even if it's not,” Christian continues, completely ignoring her freeze-ray looks and instead scooting himself even closer to her, “I'd be careful with that. Much less expensive shit gets stolen here.” He smiles at her from an uncomfortable closeness. “Get a backpack at H&M. Or Bershka, if that's where you girls like to shop.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Carla blurts out despite herself with almost no detectable irony, and Christian lights up like a Christmas tree.

So what. All things considered, everything could be much worse. Maybe she should buy a cheaper backpack – she's not sure about the locker situation.

“I'm always at your service, gorgeous,” he smirks. “I'll make you feel like home. Really, actually, there's a start of the school year party this weekend, you know, to drown our sorrows, at Samu's place – right, Samu?”

_ Samu _ , apparently, is never in the mood for Christian's antics, yet always springs up to his side within two seconds. Carla wonders whether it's some form of a survival instinct.

He doesn't even look at her, though. “Stop being annoying and leave her alone.”

“Somebody should teach you about social skills,” Christian retorts, shaking his head. “I'm not being annoying, I'm being _ friendly _ .”

“She's told you she's fine on her own, you just can't take a hint,” Samu rolls his eyes, finally one step above his default, broody  _ I'm done with this shit  _ emotional expression. Carla would be surprised if he actually knew how to smile properly. “He's annoying you, right?”

Well. Finally, she's not a  _ her _ anymore. Carla lifts her shoulder in a miniscule motion, focusing on  _ Samu _ and holding his gaze. He twitches slightly, but doesn't break it. “Even if he were, I can take care of myself,” she answers curtly. “Thanks.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Right.”

Carla gulps down the surge of anger rising in her throat. Just as she's about to turn it into ice and ask him  _ what he means,  _ cold while her insides are boiling –  _ fucking condescening chauvinistic jerk _ – the bell rings. The sound is old-fashioned, somehow grainy and piercing through her skull all at once.

“Okay. Sorry,” he turns around on his heel and walks away to his desk. Carla doesn't miss the subtle hint of irony – or, more precisely, doubt – but it makes her way less angry than before. He apologized for – for  _ what, _ exactly?

It's not like either of them are really doing something wrong. It's just her fucked-up situation – that they know nothing about. It's not  _ their _ fault.

“I'll see you around, princess,” Christian winks at her, leaning back into his chair, as  _ their _ middle-aged teacher walks into class.

_

“How was it?”

“Fine.” Carla has to try really, really hard not to roll her eyes. It's hard, considering she had been  _ fine _ every time Polo sent her a text during her school day, too. (Twenty two times, for fuck's sake. She really doubts he paid attention in any of  _ his _ classes.)

“You know, you can complain to me. I still think it was really shitty what your mum did,” Polo's staring at her, way too serious, eyes big and wide and forget-me-not-y. Carla wants to sigh. “For one, today sucked without you.”

She got the memo approximately around the second text. Somehow, it feels like it's Polo who wants to rant about her mother's selfish behaviour. Carla, on the other hand, would prefer to deal with it by ignoring its consequences completely.

“I missed just kissing you whenever I wanted to,” Polo breathes on her eyelids, fluttered shut to avoid any more school talk.

A smile spreads on her lips as she feels him tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, playing with it. “Well, I'm here now,” she brushes his cheek tenderly. His skin is smooth and porcellain-white – Carla gets secretly jealous of it sometimes. He never gets a single pimple.

Polo joins their lips in a kiss – gentle, simple,  _ familiar _ . Carla's teeth brush his lower lip.

It doesn't take long for his fingers to toy with the waistband of her skirt. Carla helps him get it off.

It's a good way to destress after her not horrible, but decidedly not amazing day. It was certainly not great to eat her lunch alone in a car, or not having Lu next to her for some amusing snarky comments to laugh at amidst the boredom. Now that he got her thinking about it, all of this fucking  _ sucks _ . Pretty much.

“You know,” he runs her hand through his hair, tugging on the strands. “Maybe some distance will actually be good for us.”

Polo stiffens on her chest instantly. “C- Car-”

“No, I just mean,” her touch is gentler now, reassuring, “Just that it'll be more exciting when we see each other now, you know? More-” her touch seems to be doing nothing for Polo's tension, which is frustrating, “- _ special _ .”

Polo lifts his head, but makes sure not to dig his sharp chin into her sternum. He holds himself up by some weird higher power, considering how much he's sinking into the bed, which can't have a good effect on his muscle effectivity. Still, his gaze is infinitely serious. “It's always special whenever I see you.”

Carla doesn't have a response to that – or not a good one, at least. Not one that's not needlessly belligerent.

“I want to be with you, that's all I need,” Polo says, as if he knows what she's thinking, lips brushing her forehead, then her cheek.

“Mhmm,” Carla hums, smiling under the sprinkling of kisses. “I love you,” she moves her face up and seals her words in his mouth.

“Me too,” Polo mumbles, already drawing his fingernails lightly down her sides. “I love you too.”

_

_ @peke.christian.007 _

_ Hey, pretty _

_ The party starts at 9 _

_ R u coming? _

_ I'm in charge of the decorations to make it real nice just for you :* _

“Carla. Carla, are you listening to me?”

Carla slaps her phone display-down on the floor a bit too urgently. Luckily, Lu doesn't seem to notice – or care.

“Yeah, sorry. It's really terrible.”

Lu rolls her eyes and doesn't even try to hide it. “Right.”

Carla's not in the mood to pick a fight – after yesterday's relishes in her past life, the club with all of her ex-classmates, her head hurts and she doesn't want  _ yelling _ . It's necessary to keep a good atmosphere – solely the fact that yesterday ended as a girls' night for them and guys' night for Polo, Guzmán and Ander, means only one thing: there's trouble in paradise (a paradise that quickly takes on to resemble  _ hell _ ).

Still, she can't help but jab at Lu a little. “What, are you scared that  _ Cayetana _ will take over?”

“Please,” Lu snorts, “She couldn't if she tried. She's so desperate to be liked, it's pathetic. She invited me to her house on Thursday, after we'd known each other for two and a half days, can you believe it?”

“And?” Carla inquires, ignoring the twist in her gut.

“Well,” Lu bites her lip, “It's cool. She was pretty cool, and she didn't even ask anything stupid after she saw me and Guz- anyways.”

“Saw you  _ what _ ?” Carla says, the twist in her gut growing and a lot harder to ignore.

“Just...  _ fight _ . You know how we are,” Lu sighs like she's resigned, but Carla knows the telltale chin thing: Lu gets a dimple in it when she tries to hold herself back, a dimple that soon turns to wrinkling.

“You don't have to keep up with it,” she proposes silently, palm on top of Lu's on the floor. She should've known this would escalate the moment they slid off the couch.

“You don't have to stay with Polo, either,” Lu murmurs, almost so quiet that Carla can't catch it, but not quite. “But you know how easy it is.”

“That's different,” Carla tries hard to stay calm but fails to control all of her defensiveness. It's just Lu, the expert at pushing all her buttons. It applies the other way around, too: and they're so good at it they don't even mean to half the time. “Guzmán treats you like the utmost shit, Polo  _ loves  _ me. We're just going through a rough patch.”

“Wow, thanks,” Lu snaps and jerks her hand from under Carla's. “That's nice of you.”

“I'm not saying-” Carla tries to smooth things over, but she doesn't like to lie, either. It's not like she could fool Lu. “I'm just saying,” she corrects herself, “that Polo and I are a totally different case from you and Guzmán.”

“Yeah. Because the rough patch has lasted longer than your actual happy relationship, but you're completely fine,” Lu softens her words towards the end, seeing that Carla has started to nibble on her lip instead of fight. “Honey, I'm just saying. Sex plays an important role in a couple's happiness, and if he can't get-”

“I'll never not regret telling you this,” Carla sighs ruefully, burying her face in her hands. This was really not a good topic area to get into when they're hungover; she actually feels like it's gonna make her brain drip from her ears in its molten state. “Maybe it's gonna get better this way, you know? If we see each other less. He probably just doesn't have enough of a libido-”

Lu snorts. Carla's mean, inner conscience snorts too, as it's been snorting for the past two years –  _ fuck _ – but Carla ignores it. It's not like she doesn't have a lot of practice.

“Are you completely sure that he's not-”

“Why don't we talk about Rebeka,” she pushes herself up back onto the couch with all her restraint. “Can you show me her instagram again? I feel like playing  _ fashion police _ .”

Lu looks like she's about to say something, but after a split-second of hesitance on her face, a well-known malicious smile takes over. She's obviously correctly calculated that letting this go means that the both of them get to escape the uncomfortable topic. “She's at  _ rebeka.con.k, _ can you believe it? So fucking cringe.”

“Right,” Carla scoffs with a closed mouth. Really, this girl is something else. “Fucking god. Are those fishnets? What year is it, 2009?”

“That's not all,” Lu tilts her head in her best mixture of menace and jaded compassion. “She wore those exact ones yesterday,  _ under _ her school uniform.”

Carla can't help the amused snort. “Yeah, well, I mean I'm all about expression through fashion, but-”

“Oh no, absolutely! If she wants to express herself as a fake-suicidal 2009 emo girl who spends too much time on tumblr, I say go for it,” Lu nods, pouting. “She's only missing the platinum blonde hair with a fringe.”

Carla chuckles, kind of amused, a little bit offended.

“Oh, you know what I mean. One-side fringe,” Lu rolls her eyes, almost lovingly. “You look gorgeous like this. But then again, you'd look gorgeous wearing a trash bag. Or even her trashy  _ fishnets _ , come to think of it.”

“Right,” Carla smiles gratefully, shortly resting her head on Lu's shoulder. “What about the other one? Cayetana?”

“Yeah,” Lu bites her lip as her fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in her username. “I really don't know how to classify her yet. She's kinda-”

_ Kinda like me _ , Carla thinks the second the girl's profile pops up on Lu's screen. Sure, her hair is longer now and Cayetana has really bad ombré which just makes her roots look outgrown, but otherwise? No fishnets, just coats and skirts and dresses, and most of them, Carla can actually picture herself wearing.

“Maybe I should give her a chance,” Lu ponders as she scrolls her thumb down Cayetana's profile experimentally. Carla takes her own phone to examine the instagram herself – for the detailed introspection she's about to do, looking over Lu's shoulder just doesn't cut it. “Should I follow her?”

“Lu?” Carla asks, hating how there was a drop of hesitance despite her best efforts. “You're not gonna-”

“Who's texting you so much?” Lu tips her chin in the direction of Carla's phone. A pop-up with an instagram DM keeps being replaced by another and another one. “Who's  _ Pekechristian _ ?”

“Noone,” Carla shakes her head. “Just this idiot from – my school.”

“ _ Gorgeous _ ,” Lu snorts and Carla hides her phone from Lu, hands crossed in front of her chest. “Well, not to paint a bleak picture, because you definitely don't need to associate yourself with  _ Peke _ , but he would definitely not have a problem getting-”

“Shut up,” Carla groans, slapping away Lu's hand, trying to get hold of Carla's phone. “Cut it. Polo and I are fine, okay? And he even knows I have a boyfriend,” she nods bitterly at Lu's doubtful glance. “He's just awfully  _ persistent _ .”

“Jeez, if Polito doesn't step up his game, you're gonna be dating one of these buffoons within two months,” Lu twists a tired curl around her finger casually. “Maybe I should tell him, you know, to get his shit together. For the greater good. Nobody wants you to end up like Marina.”

“Yeah, cause  _ I'm _ the one who gets myself into toxic relationships,” Carla points out flatly with just a lick of flame. Lu and her – they're  _ them _ . Maybe they're the most toxic relationship out of them all.

“Well, at least the  _ toxic _ can get him hard,” Lu spits back, fire much less controlled. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Carla presses her lips into a flat line. It's not like she doesn't have a comeback – she has a dozen – but what would pointing out another one of Guzmán or Lu's many shortfalls change about the fact that Lu _ is _ right?

“Carla, I'm sorry,” Lu says tenderly the next thing she knows, closer to Carla's face than she remembers. She's having trouble focusing on Lu straight ahead; she's not crying, she's just  _ upset _ . Lu's face is a soft haze of compassion. “Polo definitely has some health issues. Something with hormones or – something. I mean,” she chuckles, “You'd give  _ me _ a boner without even trying.”

“Shut up,” Carla groans softly, burying her face in Lu's shoulder. “You're so stupid.”

“Likewise,” Lu chuckles. “Love you too, I mean.”

“This isn't gonna stop us from talking, right?” Carla finally gets out, swallowing all of her pride and looking at Lu with big, wide-pupiled eyes. She may be doing the sad puppy thing on purpose. “The whole school thing. You're not gonna just forget about me and talk to Cayetana?”

“Oh, honey,” Lu smiles so genuinely, so not with a hint of poison behind her teeth, so specially that Carla wants to take a picture of it. “Nobody could ever replace you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked it, thank you for reading, kudosing and commenting! i know this wasn't all that interesting ship-wise but the backstory needs to be established and that just means you're gonna have to come back for more ;))  
> i'm [loquenomedices](https://loquenomedices.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	2. want to

“Gorgeous!” Christian yells almost sooner than he steps through the classroom door. “We missed you at the party!”

Carla fights the urge to roll her eyes. Seriously, this guy is gonna be the death of her eyesockets one day. “I told you I had plans.”

Truly, she had that much decency. Though it was mostly to stop his seemingly endless river of texts. Unfortunately, it didn't work; just prompted him to text her a bunch of very blurry pictures of himself and other people _dancing_ (if you could call it that; most of them looked like they were in the middle of an epileptic episode). His miscalculated luring tactic seemed to attempt to show Carla how much she's missing out on, accompanied with all-caps desriptions like _bring your friend, the more the merrier!_ Carla had to grin involuntarily, imagining how Lu, with a golden facemask and silk headband, would respond to Christian's invitation to a hood house party. She'd probably stab him with a nail file.

“And I told you you could've had much funner ones,” Christian practically hops towards her desk, giddy and in some way reminding Carla of one of those bulls you get at fairs and are supposed to stay on the longest you can while they rotate and shake. Christian has the exact same level of sophistication (none), but still, winning against him seems equally difficult (impossible). “Actually, my birthday's at the end of September and you definitely have to be there! I'm already holding a selection process for the venue!”

“For the _venue_ ,” Carla grimaces, a bit out of pity and a bit out of amusement. Also, because Christian is happy, and it's kind of hard to just ignore that in a world where everyone's always miserable and humour consists of gibes at the expense of others. Christian can make fun of himself.

Jesus Christ, it's been a week and she's starting to genuinely like someone who might as well have a cabbage instead of a head.

“Yes, the venue. Currently, the hottest contenders are the public park and Samu's house,” Christian informs her, smile dimpled and childish. “The park can get kinda cold at night and the amenities aren't ideal. Samu's place is great, except there's a problem with the landlord.” He winks at her. “He's kinda boring.”

“I've noticed,” Carla lifts a corner of her mouth up. “Then again, not everyone can be as _fun_ as you.” She makes sure to inject enough sarcasm, but seeing as Christian's smile gets even wider, he either missed it or chose to ignore it.

“I'm so glad we're on the same page,” Christian nods contently, placing his hand over his heart. “Really, gorgeous, your presence has a miraculous affect on my life. I even brought my book today, can you believe it?”

“I'm not sure how I caused that, but good for you,” Carla has to bite her lip to stifle a giggle or a smile; she doesn't know which is worse. Christian's put his palms on her desk and is now staring at her with the most earnest look on his face he can muster. It's not helpful that he actually has very childish features: he looks like a five-year-old who's trying to convince her that Santa is real.

“Well, because in case you forgot yours, I could volunteer to share with you,” he explains. “Of course, if you'd move your bag for me. I'd ask nicely, Miss Bag, would you mind? This is important business. We're learning the _language of the world_ – _do you understand?_ ” His accent is _tragic._

“Are you always like this or only in front of me?” Carla asks, trying to tone down the genuine interest. It really can't be somebody's deafult personality, being _this_ dumb, no?

“Only in front of cute girls I'm trying to make laugh,” Christian explains cheerfully. “Is it working?”

Carla doesn't point out how he could use his eyes and _check_ if she's laughing. She just hums, non-commital, and sends Christian to his desk by a tilt of her chin with as the bell goes off.

Christian salutes and sits. Today, they have English first period, a class so useless for Carla that it would probably be more productive to get some beauty sleep instead of listening to the teacher waffle on about conditionals.

Nonetheless, she does the exercises quickly, and then just uses the remainding time to catch up on instagram. The teacher doesn't seem to mind, probably because the fact that she can do the exercises with a 100% success rate is a win in her book. Carla's currently trying to remember who exactly this person on her feed is and whether she really is interested enough to follow their finsta and get a supply of drunken videos, when the classroom door opens.

“Sorry.” He doesn't even spare the teacher a glance, already halfway through the room, head bowed slightly down.

“Why are you late, Samuel?” Miss Suárez asks in English.

“Family issues,” Samuel murmurs in a not-completely terrible mix of American and Spanish accent. It's certainly not worse than the teacher's.

“What kind of _family issues_?” She even makes quotation marks with her fingers.

“ _Just_ family issues,” Samuel repeats in a tone that would not fit Las Encinas' code of mutual respect between students and teachers. Carla almost clicks her lips.

“Sit down,” the teacher sighs. “You'll get a proper excuse for your tutor. I'm sure you all red the school code has been updated with a new absence policy.”

“Lovely,” Samuel murmurs under his breath.

“Did you say something?”

“No, nothing.”

 _Jesus Christ_ , Carla thinks when she turns her head back for a split second and sees him, with furrowed brows, dig through his backpack for a needlessly long time, like its volume is neverending or something and she can't see the English book sticking out.

What a drama queen.

_

“Hey, Carla!”

She turns around instantly, if only to check whether Christian had severely hit his head and is now by chance bleeding out or something. She's pretty sure he's never used her actual name before.

He looks as alive as ever, though. “Who are you having lunch with?”

Honestly? Her driver. He drives her to a restaurant, gets an order for her and she eats it in the car. She hates eating alone at restaurants, and more than that, she hates that she hates it. She knows it's ridiculous and childish and nobody cares, but she gets so insecure.

Carla hates being insecure, so she just avoids it. As a consequence, she's been having a lot of sushi lately.

“Wanna join us?”

“Hm,” she does her quick mental math. Christian's smiling at her, and the chance of his proposal turning out better than her actual lonely plans is higher than that of a complete catastrophe. “Sure.”

“Alright!” Christian slaps his thigh excitedly; it smacks so much it must've hurt. It also sounds like pure muscle, not that Carla cares. “Amazing, let's go!”

The walk to the cafeteria takes around four minutes, but despite the time pressure, Carla learns about all the important landmarks, like the smoke spot that both teachers and students frequent, just at different times, the bathroom where they caught a girl fuck with a substitute teacher, or the classroom that always smells like sausage. “It's a hellhole,” Christian concludes, beaming widely. “But it's not _that_ bad. Our director's nice. She gets it. I failed a bunch of classes last year and she still let me retake finals, so that I wouldn't have to repeat the year. Oh, and we also have a boulder wall. I mean, some kid fell off like two years ago and broke the both of his arms, idiot, so now the gym's always locked, but you can get in if you're inventive enough.” He nods at her conspiratively. “The janitor likes booze. There's a yearly competition, who can make it up the highest. Everybody chips in five euros and the winner gets the whole hundred. Pretty cool. Also, if they break the all-time record, everyone has to add another twenty. That's the rule. But noone's been able to do it since I've gotten here-”

He cuts off rapidly, making Carla almost bump into him. “That's the cafeteria,” he opens a semi-transparent glass door. “Wow, sorry. That was too much talking even by my standards, I can feel all the boring information drying up my throat.”

Carla's about to be nice and reassure Christian that she doesn't mind, mostly because his blabber is amusing, if not informative, but he just goes on despite his 5-second-old-claims. “And this is the place! Hey everyone, look who I brought today!”

There's four chairs at the table, three of them taken. Christian ceremoniously offers her the free chair and goes looking for a different one while continuing with his monologue. “Carla, meet everyone! You know Samu, and that's Lina and Vanessa!”

“Eve,” the brunette with a blonde ombré that Carla's now sat next to, rolls her eyes. “It's Evelina, but everyone calls me Eve. He just wants to be original or _something_.”

“Carla,” Carla nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that sounds like Christian from the week that I've known him.”

“Yeah,” Eve nods. “I've heard he's been pretty annoying. I mean, we have music together, and all he talks is the gorgeous _being_ he shares half his classes with.”

“ _Music_ ,” Carla's eyebrow springs up before she can stop it.

“He's terrible,” Eve chuckles. “Seriously, he's like a cat that's being pulled through a chimney or something, but it's the elective you have to do the least work for. The teacher lets us sing _My Heart Will Go On_ with youtube karaoke and count it as a productive lesson. You actually have to do shit for art.”

Carla, whose elective – Psychology – consisted of a teacher playing youtube videos about MBTI personality types, has no problem believing that. She's actually bitter, because if she had ever been excited about one subject, it would have to be Psychology, but – well. Not like she can do anything about that.

“But when you're actually talented, like Vanessa, it's pretty good. The art teacher's fine,” Eve elaborates. “Some people take art just to be able to talk to him two hours every week. He tells the best conspiracy theories.”

“Yeah, they're kinda fun to listen to,” the thinner girl with almost black, straight and luscious hair that's sitting next to Samuel, finally speaks. Carla directs her attention to her: unlike Eve, she's not smiling at her so much, but her quiet voice has a calm and peaceful quality to it that instantly balances out the clatter in the cafeteria. “I mean, more as background noise than anything, it's not like I think that Shakespeare was secretly a woman. He studied English literature, too,” she adds.

“Now I wish I could paint,” Carla offers a smile. “That sounds better than the actual English.”

Samuel, who's been focused on his phone the entire time, hits the display hard with his thumb.

“I mean, these two are actually good, but there's a ton of people who can't draw for shit taking it just for that exact reason,” Eve looks to Vanessa for confirmation, who nods. “Guess their paintings won't get displayed on the walls, but they get all the Illuminati and 9/11 and aliens they could want.”

“Hey, I'm back!” Christian announces, carrying a plastic green chair by its handle and a plate of some weird beige lumps. “What are you talking about? Look at you beauties all getting along!”

“Yeah, Christian, it's not like we ever doubted your taste in girls,” Eve shrugs.

Vanessa steals an imperfect bread-coated ball from the boy's plate while he's taking his place in the chair. “Ew.”

“Don't eat my croquettes if you don't like them,” Christian glares playfully, setting it down on the table. “Want some, pretty?”

Carla critically examines the lumps. “No, thanks.”

Eve, on the other hand, is reaching over the table. “I'll help myself,” she grins innocently.

Christian pesters her jokingly when she takes three. “Samu?”

“No, thanks,” he doesn't even lift his eyes from his phone. There's a crease between his eyebrows, and the transparent container with some red mush set on the table hasn't even been opened.

Christian pops one croquette and chews with his mouth open. Carla looks away.

“Gross,” Eve shares her opinion. “With Carla around, you should probably be more conscious of your dining etiquette. She's clearly gonnna rise the local standard.”

“Why did you even transfer?” Vanessa, who's been looking through her bag, asks in that melodic voice.

Samuel, whose old phone with a cracked case seemed like the sole recipient of his attention for the past ten minutes, suddenly straightens his neck and stares – no, _glares_ – at Carla.

She has to fight an urge to throw a very mean look at him. “My family moved,” she answers softly instead, smiling at Vanessa. “My old school is an hour and a half away, it wouldn't make sense.”

None of those are lies. A part of her family moved, though to an island in the Carribean. Her old school is an hour and a half away from this school, too.

All the best lies are just twisted truth. They also should preferably be thought of in advance, so they're like a parallel reality by the time you have to use them solely because of their long-term presence in your head.

“Well, princess, what a blessing that is for us,” Christian speaks, then instantly covers his mouth. “Sorry.”

Eve nudges Carla with her shoulder gently, so Carla turns to her instead of an instantly tensed-up Vanessa that's sitting opposite of her. “You really have a good influence on him. We're all eternally indebted to you.”

“How are you doing with the art project, Samu?” Vanessa asks. It's like waves brushing the sand, but the soft almost-liquid kind by the offshore, not the hard grains.

“I haven't started. You?”

“I thought of doing Marilyn Monroe, but maybe that's too basic. That's like the first thing anyone thinks of.”

“I feel like some renaissance art could be kinda cool done in art deco style, since he said to experiment, but that was just a thought. It's probably too pretentious, I don't know.”

“No, that sounds great!” Vanessa nods ardently. For the first time, Carla sees what Samuel looks like with a genuine smile, albeit a hesitant one.

“Make sure not to do the Vitruvian – is that it? – man,” Eve scoffs amusedly after Samuel's confirmation. “You don't want it to end up like last time.”

Everyone around her, including Samuel, laughs.

“Samu painted a rendition of this naked chick and it got displayed in a classroom,” Christian informs Carla who's awkwardly smiling along. “It didn't- let's just say some students had some ideas about improving the art.”

“Yeah, like you weren't one of them,” Samuel shakes his head at Christian while still chuckling out some residue, but it's amused, not upset. “I'll never forget the goat. Why even a _goat_?”

Christian raises his hands. “Samu, I told you I didn't know it was yours!”

“It was the Sleeping Venus,” Vanessa explains in Carla's direction. “It's basically a naked girl lying on teh ground.” Carla swallows down the _I'm not dumb, I'm pretty sure I could deduce that even if I hadn't had art history for years_. “Christian drew a goat peeking at her.”

“It was supposed to be the donkey from shrek,” Christian bows his head lightly. “I forgot they didn't have horns.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you're really absolutely hopeless,” Eve snorts inbetween encompassing bursts of laughter, to which Carla adds one or two. “God.”

“Samu. Sorry, can we talk?”

The table instantly quiets as Nadia treads on the spot behind Samuel's chair. “Hi,” she greets the group timidly. “Sorry or interrupting.”

“Yeah, I'm coming,” Samuel starts to gather his things with an instant serious expression again, except too quickly. The transparent container gets knocked on the floor, but luckily doesn't burst. He packs his stuff and doesn't even say bye, or at least Carla doesn't hear it.

“Sorry,” Nadia repeats once again before it's just her and Samuel's squared shoulders walking towards the door, clearly talking in muffled voices based on how close their heads are together. Carla watches Samuel open the door for Nadia and then they're gone. It seems that at this school, _Samuel_ is the mysterious dramatic queen bee.

Vanessa breaks the silence at the table, interrupting Carla's mocking train of thought. “What happened?”

“I don't know,” Christian says, while Eve shrugs her shoulders. “But he was late to English. _Family issues_.”

“Do you think it's about Nano?” Eve tones it down, leaning on the table to get closer to her friends.

Vanessa's gaze flicks to Carla, who's sitting in place with an emotionless expression – there really is not anything for her to do to relieve her own or everyone else's uncomfortableness. Vanessa doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. Carla feels how Eve's gazed at her, too.

“No, cause what would Nadia know about that? It's probably something random about Omar or something,” Christian says, voice at an actual half-whisper volume now, which Carla didn't know he was capable of. “I mean-”

“Christian-” Eve hushes. Vanessa's staring at her hands.

“What?”

Jesus, he really _is_ stupid. Carla bites her lip.

“ _Oh_ ,” Christian finally understands, and Carla feels the three pairs of eyes more than she would've liked. “I mean, it's not like Carla's gonna tell anything to anyone, right? Besides, it's not like everyone doesn't-”

“Yeah, but it's still not your place to tell,” Even says with the patience of an overworked kindergarten teacher. “Really, it's nothing against you, Carla, it's just that-”

“No, I understand,” Carla nods at her. “It's actually nice of you. I would want my friends do the same for me and not just randomly tell my personal information to strangers.” She pauses. “I'm sure Samuel appreciates it.”

Eve smiles at her gratefully, Vanessa respectfully, and Christian just shakes his head, changing the topic. But when Samuel enters their classroom in the afternoon seven minutes late, without the teacher saying even a word, and plops down in his spot with a martyrish expression, Carla can't help but think that he doesn't look like he appreciates anything _ever_.

It's not like _she_ wants to be there, but at least she's making an effort. To quote Eve: _Jesus fucking Christ_.

It wouldn't kill him to liven up a little.

_

Carla sits in her useless English class again on Thursday, texting Lu and Eve simultaneously. Carla knows Lu has a free, because she would never jeopardize her _teacher's favourite_ position by as much as breathing too loud (as long as the teacher can see), but Eve's complaining about the horrors of her smelly Spanish teacher who even walks like a zombie. It's like a live reportage from a classroom – she even gets pictures.

“And now for the project,” Ms Suárez announces ceremoniously, actually managing to make the projector work. “I want you to write a two-page long dialogue according to the instructions on page 216. In pairs.”

“Carla! Carla,” Christian tones it down at the teacher's freeze-ray stare. “Sorry. But Carla, please? You're so good at English-”

“I have already _assigned_ the pairs,” Miss Suárez presses her middle finger to her temple while raising her voice to overcome the chatter. “You work more effectively when you're not with your friends. There's less off-topic talk.”

“That's completely wrong,” Samuel speaks in English without raising his hand.

It takes two seconds of Miss Suárez' raised brows and everyone's turned heads. In that time, Carla discovers that her name is written next to his in the projected document.

“And why do you say that, Samuel?”

All of her classmates are quietly watching Samuel as if he's the new rhetoric genius of San Esteban about to cause a revolution in public speaking or something. She'd snort if she could.

“Clearly, when we are paired with our friends, we know what to expect and what the other person's strengths and weaknesses are. We are used to working together on different tasks, therefore we will know how to distribute the work between ourselves. Besides, we have more common interests and we also likely meet up outside of school anyways, thus making the logistics of working together easier,” Samuel recites monotonely with just two smaller hiccups. “Not to mention that I really doubt you have any scientific evidence for your claims. You just want to _torture us_.”

It could've worked without the last sentence, but now, the tiny slits of Miss Suárez' eyes mirror Carla's own. “Thank you for the input, Mr García,” she speaks less securely than him, anger licking her words. “I might not have scientific evidence, but I am your teacher, and I am saying that you will do it this way. And since I love to _torture_ you, you'll have one week to complete this instead of two.” She returns to her desk in the front of the classroom, gripping on it. “I am sure that you will manage to figure out the _logistics_.” The bell cuts off her last syllable. “ _Goodbye_.”

Everyobody simply stands up to leave, some diligent students like Nadia writing down the name of their project partner first. Christian sort of shrugs at Carla and goes, like Samuel's not next to him and didn't just push everyone's deadline closer, among other things.

Carla's not a confrontational person – that means, she picks her battles, and carefully. But based on everyone else's disinterest, this one is worth picking.

She measures her steps to be right at resolute, but not rushed. Carla doesn't rush like people who can't wait to say something; Carla stays composed, _always_. Even if she's picking an argument.

 _Especially_ then. “What is your problem with me?”

“What?” Samuel looks up from his damn phone, like he's genuinely confused, like he didn't feel her walk towards him and only sees her now, like he doesn't know why she's there in the first place. “I don't have a problem with you.”

Carla laughs, ironic, deliberate. “Right. Which is why you made a whole scene not to have to work with me.”

“What?” His widened brown eyes make her inexplicably furious, to the point where she wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake. “Why wouldn't I? You're the best in class. I just thought you'd want to work with Christian.”

“What?” Carla feels as if they're each speaking some foreign alien language. He's making her certainty falter. “Why?”

“Because you two talk, maybe?” Samuel says slightly slower with an accompanying tilt of his head, like she's the idiot here. “How old are we not to be able to pick our own groups? I mean, what is this, preschool? I just hate when they treat us like kids.”

“Yeah, cause that was _really_ mature,” Carla spits. “Fighting with the teacher to turn her against the whole class, instead of shutting your mouth and just getting a bullshit irrelevant project done, even if you don't like your partner.”

”I don't _not_ like you,” Samuel literally _sighs_ , and she fantasizes about slapping him at this point. “I have nothing against you, why would I? We don't know each other. And as for keeping my mouth shut,” his gaze lingers on her, eyes dark and inappropriately sincere, “I used to do that. Not anymore.”

“Wow, you're just a saviour of the poor and voiceless,” Carla gets her voice back under control. She slipped up a little, but now again, it's cold and ironic and steel and with a crystal-clear intention. “A total Robin Hood, or I don't know, God and Jesus in one person.”

“It seems like _you_ have a problem with _me,_ ” Samuel points out partially correctly. “Which, I don't know why, since I never did anything to you.”

 _Don't let him make it personal_. “You took away a full week for the project from everyone, maybe?”

“We'll be doing it in one sitting anyway, it really doesn't matter when.”

Fucking _jerk_.

Carla breathes in through her nose in frustration, trying for extra quiet. He can't see that he's actually making her out-of-control angry, to the point where she wants to kick him in the balls. “Fine. Tuesday after school. I'm not ruining my weekend with you.”

“I can't on Tuesday,” Samuel seems to be getting irritated too. “You know, I have work. The world doesn't revolve around you.”

 _Don't let him see you lose your cool. Think about cutting his dick off. It's definitely tiny._ “Wednesday.”

“That's a day before it's due, besides, I can't do that either. See, this is what I said about it being easier to match your schedules with your friends.” He pauses. “I'm _sorry_ , I work on every day we could do it next week.”

Carla stops herself from just _growling_. “I don't have time tomorrow _or_ on Saturday.”

“Make it Sunday, then,” Samuel proposes with a hint of annoyance. “It's not like it's my only fully free day this week or anything.”

“Fine. Your place,” Carla says without a space for argument, because she is definitely not letting him into her house.

“Fine,” Samuel sighs, irritation now so distinct that he's surely not trying to hide it. “Bye.”

Carla turns around on her heel and doesn't answer.

_

“He's just such a fucking jerk, can you believe it?”

The party's not a party, because a water main burst on the street of the club, so now they're all sitting around Lu's indoor pool and drinking a mix of cocktails, straight tequila or a beer Lu managed to dig out for Ander from the fridge.

“What else can you expect from these people,” Guzmán shrugs.

Carla doesn't dignify that with an answer.

“I'm sorry, darling,” Lu says, swirling her Margarita around in her glass. “Is it that _Pekechristian_ again?”

Polo coughs up his tequila. Carla doesn't know why he's drinking this much – it's not his style. Something's clearly wrong, but she's too upset herself to try and figure it out.

“He's fine. It's this asshole Samuel that has a problem.” She grips onto the stem of her glass too harshly. “And he has the audacity to act as if he doesn't know what I'm talking about.”

“Maybe he doesn't,” Ander chips in – all heads turn to him in surprise. “I'm just saying, you girls are complicated. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to just ask.”

“He's probably clinically imbecilic, don't waste your energy on him, Carla,” Guzmán literally doesn't stop talking despite the fact that she hasn't spoken a word with him (unless completely necessary) since his father sold out hers. “I just say, try to survive the year and don't bother with what _they_ think about you.”

“Who's Christian?” Carla hasn't even noticed, while trying to figure out the best way to not-respond to Guzmán (who is as much of a clueless idiot as that Samuel, really), that Polo walked over to her from his side of the circle. His lip brushes her earlobe.

“Noone, just a guy from school,” Carla says matter-of-factly, set on closing the topic. Polo breathes in next to her ear, like he wants to say something, but she turns around her head and pecks his lips. “You don't have to worry about anything, you know I only love you.”

Polo loosens up, and the crisis is averted. Thankfully, because Carla does not have any energy left for arguing with boys.

“They're all just jealous of you, that's all,” Guzmán concludes, reaching to Polo for the bottle and gulping. “They're all primitives, that's what they do. Seriously, don't even spare them a thought.”

He laughs, bright and breezy and careless. It echoes in the room and attacks Carla's senses. Lu's about to open her mouth, probably to add some words of _encouragement_ on her own, and suddenly, Carla doesn't feel like going along with it anymore.

“That's very easy for you to say, you don't have to go there,” she snaps. “But _I_ do. And if you don't remember, it's because your father sold out mine.”

Well. Maybe she should've remembered how she doesn't have energy to fight with anyone.

But she couldn't help it. Her tongue is a bit loose, her mood is a _lot_ terrible and Guzmán is an astronomical jerk. Carla completely understands why Lu and Guzmán fight so much – what she doesn't get is how Lu, of all people, crawls back every single time.

“Don't talk about my father,” Guzmán says, the surge of anger already rising in him. They get up to their feet. Predictably, Lu rushes to Guzmán's side and puts her hand on his palm. Even more predictably, Guzmán shakes her off and grows even more upset. “You have no idea what we've had to go through!”

“I have no idea what you had to go through?” The venom hurts in Carla's throat. It's freezing from the inside. “Fucking bullshit, Guzmán. Marina is just Marina, everybody always knew that. At least your family had the money to lock her up in Switzerland, while I have to go to to a school whose code name is _tragic_ because your family doesn't understand the concept of loyalty.”

“Don't put my family in your mouth!” Guzmán yells. “Marina's not locked up, she goes to school to pursue dance, and you're the shittiest friend! And stop making it like it was my father's fault, when in reality, it was yours who pushed for the minimum costs!”

“That's what he told you?” Carla's throat burns with hatred. “Well, Guzmán, of course he'd tell you that. Of course I'd hear the opposite. Shouldn't you have learned by now?” She looks into his eyes (raging) for a second longer, making sure he catches the implication. “No matter which one of them it was, they had a bond, which your father broke because he's a _coward_.” Her voice wavers in the middle as she sees Guzmán's hand turn into a fist.

“You don't talk about fucking loyalty!” Guzmán yells ravingly, taking a step closer. Lu catches his arm, but it's as if she's not there. Carla doesn't twitch. “You don't give a fuck about anyone because you don't have any feelings, it's easy for you to be _loyal_!”

“Guzmán, stop.” It's Ander who exerts an actual effort, one that isn't destined to fail. He steps inbetween them putting his hands on Guzmán's shoulders. “Calm down.”

“Do you think I have it easy, Carla?” Guzmán screams into Ander's face. “You have no fucking clue what it's like at home!”

“I feel so bad for you because you miss your sister who's _pursuing dance_ in Switzerland,” Carla spits out ironically while gathering the contents of her purse. Maybe the most upsetting fact about this situation is that Polo, her _boyfriend_ , is just sitting on the couch with an anxious expression, not saying a word to defend her. “You have to be suffering so much. Will you only get to see her during the holidays? Or are you just mad that she's not the only one stirring shit up anymore, and your parents have realized that you're not a perfect angel _son_?”

“Marina has HIV!”

Carla turns from her purse from a second, her fingers turning violet as she grips her phone.

“What did you say?” Lu breaks the terrible silence.

Guzmán exhales. “I-”

“You didn't even tell me?”

Not that Carla wants Lu to cause another extremely damaging fight with her boyfriend by her worst character traits resurfacing right _now,_ but she _is_ grateful for the distraction. While a two-sided shouting match ensues, one that is much more balanced than her and Guzmán's could ever be, because Lu doesn't waste her time thinking when she's mad, Carla slips out of the door. She makes sure not to look back at Polo. He doesn't deserve to know that she's upset because of his behavior (or lack thereof).

She makes it out of the well-known house with a carefully curated _nothing_ in her head, only focusing on the quickest path from the hallways to outside, but when the sun and wind and life hit her once she's out the door, she has to lean her back on the house wall.

_Fuck._

___

Time to face it: her life is absolute fucking crap.

She stayed up until three a.m., staring at the ceiling and Marina's profile picture on whatsapp in irregular intervals. She started typing more texts than she could count, each ending up in a vacuum of unspoken words.

How do you even say that?

What do you even say?

_Hi, I know you have HIV. Are you okay?_

Carla feels so bad that she can't even stomach it. Guzmán's _you don't care about people_ swirls around with each unsent message. All the moments she ignored Marina, because Lu had joined the school in seventh grade with biting jokes and immaculate taste of fashion that somehow seemed more important than the fact that she'd known Marina since birth at that time, play on loop in her head.

Still, she doesn't continue to try in the morning.

She doesn't answer Polo's texts, growing more and more anxious each. She might be feeding onto Guzmán's narrative, but she really doesn't particularly care in this case. (Polo _deserves_ it. A few _kind of_ apologetic texts aren't gonna cut it.)

Lu didn't text her, which is not at all surprising, considering all the possible outcomes that could've played out after Carla left, Giumán being the most important variable. She wouldn't even help, most definitely.

That doesn't mean that Carla doesn't feel like shit.

And in this joyful state of mind, she has to find out Samuel's address to complete a stupid fucking English project for her terrible new school.

No point putting it off. Carla sighs and reaches for her phone.

_9 unread DMs_

_@dibusamu_

_not following each other_

_Hey, is 4pm Sunday at my place good for you?_

Then there's an address. Carla doesn't really know where it is, but it's not like she won't be taking a Cabify.

Well, at least he saved her from texting first. Or having to make decisions. Her brain seems blank after the night, just weirdly unsettled. Maybe it's because she hasn't left her room today.

_Ok._

The _read_ appears instantly.

_Great. Thanks so much for being so understanding and making time when I don't have work. I appreciate it._

_Now_ he's being decent.

It makes her want to throw her phone against a wall even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, your kudos and comments are much appreciated <3  
> carmuel content is slowly but surely getting closer, for now i hope you enjoyed the fights hh


End file.
